


the clock on the wall

by brideofquiet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, M/M, Stolen Moments, Time - Freeform, blow jobs to stave off the end of the world, clocks??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 11:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14448735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet
Summary: Stupid goddamn infinity stones. He wonders what he might do, if he got ahold of the time stone. He hopes he’d have the strength to crush it between his palms. So much dust, brushed off on his pant legs. That’s what he should do. No more five fucking minutes, which is all they’ve ever had, which is all he’s ever asked for and somehow he knows it’ll never be enough to satisfy him.





	the clock on the wall

**Author's Note:**

> INFINITY WAR SPOILERS. Hello? Fuck? Fuck! 
> 
> Events of the movie are mostly only alluded to, but it's labeled spoilers for a reason. This story presumes that when Steve and company arrive in Wakanda, this is not Steve's first visit since Bucky came off the ice. I wrote this five minutes after arriving home, so please excuse any errors, factual or grammatical.

An analog clock on the wall ticks out the seconds, staccato and constant—a metronome. It’s strange, that here in Wakanda they still hang the same kind of timepiece his ma kept over the mantle. But, Steve supposes, even Wakandans know that time is definite. It will march steadily by whether you will it or not. It will pass, same as it ever has, by the hour, the minute, the second. There is no need for innovation.

This clock, which Steve catches a glimpse of while the door slides closed with a quiet _ whoosh _ behind them, says they have five minutes, tops, before someone comes looking.

That’s just fine. He knows by now the precise value of five minutes’ of Bucky’s time.

“I should get back outside to Sam,” Bucky says, even as Steve presses him to the wall.

“And I should get to Shuri’s lab.” His voice is muffled against the juncture of Bucky’s jaw. He’s still getting familiar with the feel of the beard beneath his lips. “Do you want me to go?”

“No,” Bucky growls and grabs him, both hands—two hands again, gripping at the rough kevlar of his suit. Same one, the old one, with a half-assed dye job he’d done in a motel bathtub. Sam had made him scrub out the stain with bleach. Bucky had laughed, the first time he’d seen it, low in his throat.

Against Bucky’s mouth, Steve mumbles, “New arm.”

“Yeah.” Bucky gets a hold of Steve’s hair with this strange new left hand, body-warm to the touch. Its gold thread glints in the light from a window when he yanks Steve’s head back far enough to look him in the eye. “You like it?”

“Do you?”

“Shut up, Rogers. Five minutes.”

“Four, now.”

“Shut  _ up.” _

Bucky kisses him hot and fierce. His chest shudders under Steve’s hands—his tectonic plates shifting, fault lines colliding somewhere deep inside him. Steve only crowds him closer as if that might help steady him. He feels the quake beginning, too. It’s only a matter of time before the earth shakes open and swallows them whole. Three and a half minutes.

“Do you really think,” Steve says, “it’s the end of the world?”

“Who gives a shit at this point.”

“Me. You.”

“Don’t ruin this.”

“There something to ruin?”

“Rogers,” Bucky says, pulling back again. “Steve.”

Steve cups his face with one hand, the other tight at Bucky’s hip, holding them both together. The answer to either question doesn’t matter so much, he supposes. Neither is a matter of opinion. What is, is. What isn’t—isn’t. The two of them have always been just flotsam bobbing along in inevitability’s wake, no matter how much Steve believed—still believes—he could rally against it.

Stupid goddamn infinity stones. He wonders what he might do, if he got ahold of the time stone. He hopes he’d have the strength to crush it between his palms. So much dust, brushed off on his pant legs. That’s what he should do. No more five fucking minutes, which is all they’ve ever had, which is all he’s ever asked for and somehow he knows it’ll never be enough to satisfy him.

He wouldn’t dare ask for more, though. No. He’d set it between the heels of his hands and press with all his might. He would.

“Steve,” Bucky repeats, softer. “Clock’s ticking, sweetheart.”

Steve blinks his eyes open, tracks over the lines in Bucky’s face. Christ but they both look the worse for wear. Bucky’s hand, the one Steve knows, raises to stroke over Steve’s beard and into his hair. It’s too long now, for his taste, but Bucky seems to like it like this. At least he had, when Steve had been too busy to have it cut that time he’d come to see him. The second, or maybe the third—he can’t remember, which grinds at him. He’s so tired.

He gathers Bucky up in his arms and breathes. “You washed your hair,” he says, inhaling the clean smell like rainwater coming off him.

“Showered and all.”

“Shower? They finally upgrade that metal tub?”

“No,” Bucky huffs, and doesn’t clarify. Steve doesn’t ask. Economy of details—it’s not as if it matters.

“You clean anywhere else?” Steve says, punctuating his sentence by taking Bucky’s earlobe between his teeth.

“Everywhere,” Bucky sighs. “You got less than three minutes.”

Steve’s knees hit the floor so hard he nearly bounces right back up. Bucky’s hands are in his hair immediately as he shifts and settles against the wall. With a practiced gesture, Steve flicks the buttons of Bucky’s pants open and gets him free. If there’s one part of him that’s never so changed—

No preamble, Steve sucks him down to the back of his throat. Bucky hisses and whines above him, his fingers knotted in Steve’s hair in an effort to hold him still a second. But Steve grunts around him and sets to work. It’s not like he has time for finesse. He hollows his cheeks and drags the tension out of Bucky’s body through his dick.When his eyes start to water, he only doubles down and takes him deeper. Steve is nothing if not efficient.

Steve knows he’s close when Bucky starts thumbing at his temples, these restless little circles. He shifts his feet, his belly going rigid where Steve holds him to the wall. He comes with half a sob. The only sounds in the room are Steve swallowing thickly, and the clock, its second hand thumping so loud it could be a heartbeat.

Bucky drags him up by the collar and kisses him before Steve has a chance to wipe his mouth clean. He doesn’t seem to mind—licks his own come out of Steve’s beard where it had dribbled from his lips, in fact.

“Fuck,” he says. “Your turn.”

“Out of time,” Steve says.

_ “Fuck _ that.” Bucky’s hands fumble for his belt buckle, but Steve circles his wrists and brings their hands between their chests instead. He leans closer, pinning them there. He glances at the clock. It’s been six at least. Borrowed time between them, now—as if that were anything new..

“We’re out of time, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes cast toward the ceiling. His head thumps against the wall once, twice, three times. “Goddammit, Steve.”

He knows Bucky can see the wan smile he offers, even if he refuses to look directly at it. “Clock says we gotta go. Should already be gone.”

“Who’s gonna miss us?”

That makes Steve laugh, half-strangled. “Come on,” he says, already stepping back.

But Bucky grabs him and hauls him back in, his face lit up with intensity like Steve hasn’t seen on either of them in a long time. He looks—frantic, briefly, till he kicks sand over it and his mouth falls back into that hard, flat line.

“You’ll stand next to me?” Steve asks, quiet.

“Where the hell else am I supposed to stand?”

He touches his fingertips to Bucky’s cheek and allows himself one overlong inhale. Bucky holds his eye for it—blue fire, burning between them, eternal as anything can be.

 

 

*

 

 

Later, with blood on his face, Steve will touch his hand to the ground where all that remains is leaves. Or is it ash? It’s gritty under his fingers.

“Oh, God,” he breathes, and sinks to the ground.

Somewhere—maybe in his head—the heavy bell of a clock tower tolls out an impossible hour.  


End file.
